


Mercy

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, JLCGBC, Johnlock Challenges, Last Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Sherlock Holmes, Porn With Plot, Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock-centric, Smut, barely, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because there is only one person who has ever been able to make Sherlock Holmes beg for mercy.</p><p>...............</p><p>He wants to carve off a piece of John, carry it with him forever, wants to give John a piece of his flesh back, to embed in his heart. He doesn’t think John would deny him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Prompt: Please John, I need this. Can't you see that I need this? (explicit rating)
> 
> A gift-fic for handpickedhappiness for the Johnlock Challenges grab bag! (And with that prompt, I suppose it was always going to be smut! Hope you like it <3) 
> 
> Edit: I tagged this as a missing scene and I explain exactly where it falls/how it works in the end notes, just in case you're either nit-picky about details or have a terrible memory (I'm guilty of both!). You could also just watch the part right after John finishes talking to Mycroft in the Reichenbach fall to the point where John wakes up in the lab, because this scene is right in the middle, but yeah, that seems like a lot of work.

_I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice ___

_I have never begged for mercy in my life. ___

_**Twice. ** __****_

If only Irene could see him now.

In his defense, there’s something extraordinarily lovely about John’s face in the half-light, the familiar crinkles around his pursed mouth, the soft worry blinking in his weary eyes. 

“Sherlock—“ he starts to say, reaching for him. One sure, steady hand, just there, cupping his cheek, as if John could make this better, like he always does, say something frustratingly ordinary and sane and they’d be back at Baker Street and this could all be forgotten.

The sharp clink of an overturned beaker as Sherlock knocks blindly into the counter. The dark gloom of the abandoned lab, as familiar as his own bedroom. A nameless fear, the edge of something that feels like despair, and then Sherlock’s pushed John (flatmate, colleague, friend, this is a bit not good) up against the wall. There’s a gasp as Sherlock clenches a hand into his wounded shoulder, bites brutally at his thin lips, pouring out his fear in the only way he can think to show it, to the one man who lets him take and take and never expects anything in return. 

He wants to carve off a piece of John, carry it with him forever, wants to give John a piece of his flesh back, to embed in his heart. He doesn’t think John would deny him. 

“I’m not going to leave,” he manages to choke out. “I won’t, _do you understand _.” and there’s a part of him that realizes how childish he sounds even now, driven to petulance by the few things he cannot decipher.__

This is what Moriarty has reduced him to. 

If Sherlock screams into his phone, surrenders this game that isn’t a game anymore, if he begs Moriarty to take it all back, would he? Could they go back to Baker Street and John could curl sure, steady fingers, not a shake, through his hair and Sherlock could close his eyes, snap, snap, just forget this, forget all of this?

He doesn’t know, but the point is moot. Because even now, Sherlock knows he won’t surrender. Not to Moriarty. Not to anyone, because Sherlock Holmes doesn’t beg for mercy, he doesn’t, he doesn’t---

“Help me John, I need---“ He doesn’t know what he needs. He doesn't even know when he started saying it, a broken refrain in between wet, frantic kisses and John’s hand is gently cradling his head, voice murmuring soothingly.

“It’s going to be alright, Sherlock, it is, okay? We’ll be back home soon—back to—“

“No, don't.” And John doesn’t, because John always knows what he needs, never questions him and it’s unfair, because maybe if, for just once in his life, John would doubt him, if just once he’d yell at Sherlock, tell him he was a liar, a cheat, unfairly accuse him…Then, maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be able to let him go. 

Sherlock can’t let go. His fingers wrap into John’s heavy jumper of their own volition. He might be whimpering, he might still be whispering John’s name over and over, a desperate prayer ghosting down cross his neck, his chin.

“John, I—I-“

“It’s _okay _, love.” John pulls him close, holds him and Sherlock wants to bite off something scathing, about how he’s not a child (he’s just a bit overwhelmed), how he knows that it’s not okay, (that this will never be okay), how he doesn’t need to be held (but right now maybe he does). The words, which seem to flow freely enough when they’re unwelcome, refuse to come, leaving him hanging and bewildered.__

“Shush—I’ve got you.” John pushes him back against the counter and Sherlock reluctantly allows himself to be untangled, slides his arse across the cool counter until he’s sitting, facing John, one hand rubbing the side of his face, the other clenching and unclenching at his shoulder.

“Listen to me,” John says grimly. (Calm, because John is always calm, even when Sherlock falls apart). “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get you out of this mess. Okay?”

“You can’t fix this,” Sherlock tells him bluntly, ruthlessly crushing the irrational flare of hope that rises in his chest. “If I can’t, you can’t.” 

“Then you will,” John says firmly, as if there’s no reason to doubt Sherlock, as if Sherlock hasn’t made a mess of things from day one with Moriarty, as if he’s never seen the numerous times Sherlock’s made a fool of himself. 

“I can’t—“ 

It’s John who pulls his head down this time, kisses him gently, as if they do this all the time (but they don’t and this is new information and he lost it, his chance to catalog John’s surprise, his pleasure, all of it, to ferret it away and keep it)

He might never get that chance again. 

Sherlock lunges forward, awkwardly wrapping his arms around John’s neck and he wants this, so very badly, but John’s stepping back for some reason, his expression unsure for the first time. Sherlock knows that face, his ‘doctor’ face, knows that he’s wondering how much of this is real and how much of this is just frustration, anxiety, stress (but it doesn’t matter, if they never have time to discuss it, it doesn’t matter if they’re doing it for the wrong reasons, as long as they do do it, as long as he has something to hold onto). 

“JOHN.” Sherlock fumbles desperately with his buttons, exposing as much pale skin as he dares. He slips one hand in to toy with his own nipple, flushing hot with embarrassment at the wanton display (but in the back of his mind he thinks of temptation, of lovely blue eyes that he’s seen flit to his open buttons when John thinks he isn’t looking, that linger at his collarbone and sweep across the tight strain of his shirts). John grabs his wrist immediately and Sherlock squirms, but there’s no technique to his resistance and John is stronger than he looks, lean muscle under fluffy cardigans and a bit of fat, part of the contradiction that makes him intriguing, unique, part of what Sherlock loves and all of which he’ll lose. 

Sherlock’s hands still at his abdomen, the vein in his neck pulsing, cheeks flushed. And he knows John will demand of him, _“Why?” _Why like this, why now, when once they had all the time in the world, but in that world John didn’t want him, did he, and Sherlock didn’t need anyone and now, none of it seems to matter.__

“You sure about this?” The words slip kindly off of John’s tongue and Sherlock looks up, stares blankly, because, somehow, he’s underestimated John Watson yet again. 

“I need this,” he tries to explain, but his tongue is thick (and why won’t John just understand, why can’t he just observe?) Sherlock clenches his teeth, spits it out, the shameful declaration. “Can’t you see that I need this?”

“Sherlock---“

“Please, John.”

“That’s twice,” John says, a half-smile on his lips, but then his face sobers, mouth turns down and his voice is gruff—(longing, sorrowful, caring)—and he steps between Sherlock’s parted legs, drawing closer until his words blow warm air into Sherlock’s open mouth—“Alright,” he says, one hand rubbing soothing circles over the tight material at Sherlock’s thigh. “Alright.”

Because this is just one more mad adventure and John can never deny him anything.

But also because John wants too, Sherlock realizes for the first time. The way he takes over undressing Sherlock, the reverent brush of his fingers across the exposed skin, the soft kisses across his jaw, all of these aren’t the idle thought of a moment, they’re the cumulation of many moments, of frustration and love and need and Sherlock wonders what else he’s missed, but now it’s too late to find out. He buries his head in John’s jumper, lets him take over, sliding off clothes, zips, buttons, until Sherlock’s bare and the marble is cold against his arse.

He’s not fully aroused, doesn’t think he can be right now, but he just wants John there, wants something warm and of home (despicable thoughts at any other time) but then John palms him and he remembers what this is about, about having something of John’s and hisses, “Take me.” 

John protests, probably. Or Sherlock thinks he does, because it fits with what he knows of John, but he won’t remember that later anyways. John pushes him back (In the morning, Molly might wonder at the beaker that shatters on the ground and John might flush at the ridiculousness of it all) (but no they won’t, neither of them will, because they’ll have other things to think about by then, things that far eclipse broken glass and rough sex). 

He can feel John’s mouth, closing over his raised nipple, lightly flicking, John’s hands smoothing the tightness of his stomach and running down the crease of his thighs. But that’s not fair, it’s too intimate, and he can’t do this if his memory is of gentle lips, the press of them against his sweaty forehead. John’s trying to reason with him, but Sherlock’s reason has only gotten him so far and besides, there is a logic to this, a cold, beautiful logic that he’s only just beginning to see.

He spits on his fingers, reaching down himself (he’ll do it if John won’t, he’ll be the first to start the train wreck, always, every damn time). He hasn’t done this in a long time, but he’s aware of the theory, of the seductive image he makes, running his fingers lightly down his body, insinuating them between his cheeks. The burn is brutal, but it keeps him here, rooted in the moment, with John’s hiss of arousal, as Sherlock works himself open for him. Blunt fingers slide over his, cover his hand as he relentlessly pushes, biting his lip (but he won’t give in, a flicker of pain and John will stop him and he looks brilliant like this, lust sweeping his face and just for him, all for him.)

“I wish I had done this properly,” John tells him in the semi-darkness, voice hoarse, tongue just wetting his lips. “Laid you out and taken you slowly--I wish—oh god, I wish---“

He wants to tell John that wishes are impossible, idiotic, (days and nights and months in Baker Street of this) but he can’t say it and so he pulls out his fingers, rubs them against John’s lips to silence him. The air is cold and he’s too open now, so he wraps his legs around John’s waist, rubbing against the still-clothed erection there, the disparity of thick clothing against his bare skin, the smell of sex that will linger, long after he’s gone. John steps away (again) but there’s a clink and then he’s back, the blunt pressure at Sherlock’s spit-slicked hole—

Hesitation. Just a moment, but it’s infuriating (and there’s something wet at the corners of his eyes, threatening to trickle down his cheeks, because John is here, and even now, he worries about Sherlock first, and there’s something about that, that makes his eyes wet and his heart pound and he _hates _it) and he slings an arm around John’s neck to hide his pain, pulls him down for soft, slow kisses, the universe narrowing for a few brief instances to just this, their tangled limbs and the slow burn of intrusion.__

“Don’t -“ he gasps but he doesn’t know what he’s referring to anymore and the sweaty press of them together is suddenly overwhelming, because he never thought this would happen, he missed all the cues (all the cues that John taught him, dates and flirting and longing glances and all the cues that he should have seen, sacrifice and bravery and acceptance). 

There’s always something, but this knowledge is too much. John’s close enough that he can see the words before they form and he knows then what he was trying to prevent (disaster) and he lunges up, takes John’s lips before they can say it, catches a low moan and the impossible words at the tip of his tongue. 

John strokes him gently, caressing his cock with his free hand, the other curling protectively around his back as he arches from the intensity of it. The pleasure creeps up on him, startles him, so incongruous is it (with them, with the surroundings, with the chaos of his mind). John comes in him and he rocks, the wetness trickling out of him and onto the marble below. 

He can feel the teeth sliding across his throat, scraping a thin line that will brand him for weeks. John pulls him back by the hair, exposing him, ( _"'Let go for me, love" _)and then there’s the shock of his own release, a pleasure-pain that leaves him boneless and clingy, splatters over John’s clothes (unhygienic, disgusting, _his _).____

John slides them both to the floor, thumping heavily as Sherlock leans his weight on him, limp with exhaustion. A thumb swipes at his wet cheeks and Sherlock allows his eyes to flutter shut. There’s silence in his mind, a cryptic, terrifying silence, but it’s better than the paralyzing fear of before, just a few moments—

“I lov—“ John starts to say and Sherlock sits up in his lap, wrapping the remnants of his dignity around him (he’s shown his hand and it’s futile and too late and by tomorrow even this bit of dignity will be lost to him. )

“No,” he says coldly, because it’s only then that it occurs to him, the cruelty of what he’s done. The selfishness of it, because John didn’t want to do this, not like they’d done it and tomorrow, Sherlock will jump and he’ll leave behind what was instead of what could have been and it’ll make it that much more difficult on John. Because he’ll be burying more than a friend, more than a flatmate, he’ll be burying a lover (and worst of all, there’s a dark, nasty part of Sherlock that almost revels in that, because if he has to leave, if he’s gone, he wants John to remember him. If he’s gone, he wants that memory to clutch at night and he wants to know that John can’t forget him either and is that really so much to ask?) 

Bit not good (Very not good) And so he tries one more time (but his heart’s not in it and yet another part of him wants to destroy, like he always does, wants to see how far he can push this fragile thing before it crumbles). 

“What if it was just a trick?”

“What was?” John shifts under him and braces a strong arm across his chest (the floor is probably quite dirty, they both know better.) 

“Me, everything: what if all of this was a sham? All the deductions—“

He can feel John frowning, the disapproval emanating off of him in waves. “I already told you—“

“I said what if, John, not that it was—“

John can’t know why he’s asking, but he tilts Sherlock’s head to the side, kisses him soundly (and he thought there would be embarrassment, but there is none, no shirking from what they’ve done and maybe it turns out he doesn’t know John Watson as well as he thinks). 

“You’d still be a prat and I’d still love you.” 

There. That was it, done, and now John will never forgive him. He’s unbearably sore, sticky with sweat and cum (John’s, all of it, them together) and there's a promise in those words, but Sherlock knows, then, that he’s never going to make it back. Baker Street he saw hours ago and John he’ll soon say goodbye to, but the point remains that even if he survives, even if everything goes to plan, this place, where everything is fine and John loves him and 221B is home will never be his again. 

“We have work to do,” he says, getting up to gather his clothes. “I’ll be back—“ ( _Now, forever, years later, when you’ve stopped looking for me _).__

John sighs and grabs his ankle. “Really Sherlock?”

“Now’s not the time,” Sherlock tells him. “Later---“ he swallows—“Later there’ll be time.”

“It’s fine you know,” John tells him, a weary smile at his lips. “It’s all fine.”

And for one earth-shattering moment, Sherlock, despite all reason, believes him.

**Author's Note:**

> So here's the context (feel free to skip if it doesn't matter too much to you! Also, all emotions/theories are clearly up for interpretation, because I probably just see what I want to. I'll write prologue and epilogue at some point.) 
> 
> In canon, John comes into the lab: he's just seen Mycroft and Sherlock apparently texted him and asked him to come. He finds Sherlock looking what can only be described as 'strung out'. He's jittery and almost maniacally focused (I have a suspicion he took something, but that's just head canon). He tells John they need to find the computer code and wipe out all traces of Richard Brooke. It's a bit odd because it's clear that he doesn't really need John there at the moment, for all that he's specifically called him. Then Sherlock drums his fingers on the desk and realizes that the beat is the binary. He texts Moriarty to meet him on the roof in a few hours and that's when, I think, he gives up on the idea of being able to wipe out Richard Brooke, because he doesn't mention the code again and he seems (in my opinion) a bit panicked/lost. He turns to John. (insert this scene here) The camera cuts to a few hours later (dawn) and John is still there, nearly asleep, which is when the call about Mrs. Hudson comes in. It's not very clear what's gone on in the time in-between. Sherlock probably set up the phone call (I wonder if it was Molly who called?), but he clearly wasn't preparing for his death scene with John in the room. *cough*


End file.
